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The Atlantis Hex The soaring bonfire spiraled and swayed in the warm Florida breezes at the Tropical Palms mobile home park in Sebring. Reddish-gold embers floated into the starry sky and quickly died, as three-dozen birthday revelers lounged around the crackling flames to celebrate Larry Mobley's birthday. At midnight, a slurred but hearty rendition of “Happy Birthday” filled the muggy air, followed by clanking beer bottles, back slaps, and laughter. Cricket melodies and owl hoots provided background din for the outdoor event. Larry Mobley turned sixty after midnight, and he staggered from lawn chair to lawn chair, accepting droll congratulations for officially joining the over-the-hill club. He laughed repeatedly, as if it were the first time he’d suffered the redundant joke. His perspiring baldpate reflected the flickering fire like a small moon as he made his compulsory rounds, and his glassy dark eyes continually roamed the crowd for anyone he might've missed. He didn't want to slight any of his generous friends. His beer-bloated stomach swelled above his belt, forcing his shorts from his waist to his hips. His bladder ached and painfully pressed against his belt buckle, straining his laughter. He had to pee so bad he could taste it, but too many others had the same idea. There was a long line of revelers roping from his two bathrooms out to his small back porch. No immediate relief there. He scoped out the jungle bordering the rear of his yard. The silhouette of the large palmetto palm snagged his eye, and he realized there was a narrow space behind it from his many years of manicuring the damn landscape. Perfect! Larry casually monitored his guests; thankfully, no one was watching him at the moment. He back pedaled into the gyrating bonfire shadows and skirted the ragged circle of partiers. A grimace stressed his face as he waddled stiffly toward the palm. He was near to peeing his pants, and that just wouldn't do. He refused to smell like piss on his big night! They waited in the blackness beyond the firelight's reach, sniffing new scents and curiously observing the rowdy life forms. Their hunting instincts were a jumble of confusion, and although they were ravenous, they waited. Fear tainted their ferocity and weighted their savagery with vigilance. They moved like ghosts along the fringe of the jungle, nostrils twitching and eyes scanning beneath the new moon sky. Suddenly, a single life form broke from the others and headed toward them. A low, almost inaudible growl vibrated in the leader’s throat. Larry stumbled into the narrow break behind the palmetto and unzipped his fly. He blinked at the black, vine-smothered vegetation beside him. Certain blotches appeared darker. He grunted. Probably his beer-inspired imagination. He proceeded to drain the main vein. He whistled a lame version of “Happy Birthday” to chase his sudden paranoia that someone was keeping him under surveillance. The jungle blotches seemed to shift. Move unnaturally. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. Larry ceased whistling long enough to sigh his relief and zip up his fly. He felt like a new man. The bladder pain was already subsiding, and he was ready to tackle another six-pack. Before stepping out from behind the freshly watered palm, he noticed that the jungle was suddenly quiet. No crickets. No owls. Nothing. Tingles rumbaed along his spine. Anxiety flared and his stomach gurgled. He instinctively knew he had to get the hell out of there. Fast. The blotches shifted again, and branches cracked as Larry staggered away from the jungle fringe, terror etched on his face. One of the shadowy blotches broke free of the jungle and snarled. Others emerged in a uniform line. An attack line! He started running, but the shadows bounded after him and pounced. Larry’s scream was reduced to a bloody burble as six cats violently ripped him into fleshy morsels. The party noise ceased, and a woman shrieked. Panic swept through the revelers, and they leaped up and stampeded for the mobile home. The slower partygoers were roughly shoved down to the damp grass, kicked, and trampled during the mad rush for the looming safety of Larry’s mobile home. The cats reacted to the chaos and attacked furiously, mauling those lying on the ground first, and then shredding the stragglers who desperately tried to squeeze through the back-porch door. Worried limbs, decapitated heads, and clawed torsos with stomachs ripped open littered the backyard. The slaughtered victims’ hollow sockets stared sightlessly into the dotted sky; their mouths were wildly distorted in terror. Those survivors with strong stomachs observed the horrible scene unfold through the small doublewide windows. One of the guests, Dr. Len Phillips, shouted animatedly to a 911 operator on his cell phone. During his gruesome description of the massacre, the other stunned survivors overheard him use the phrase, “saber-tooth tiger”. They gazed uneasily into the night. The bonfire sputtered, and the last of their savage attackers had retreated into the jungle shadows. Everyone was incredulous. It all seemed like such a bad dream now. Saber-toothed tigers? They had seen the vicious predators, all right, but their collective shock from the savage violence had prevented the truth from hitting home. Saber-toothed tigers? How in the world could that be? Saber-tooth tigers were extinct. But seeing was believing.
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